


Acta Est Fabula

by nbenrey-real (celestial_archivist)



Series: A Watsonian Perspective [4]
Category: HLVRAI - Fandom, Half-Life VR But The AI Is Self Aware
Genre: Ableism, Agender Bubby, Anxiety Disorder, Autisic Science Team, Gen, Genderfluid Coomer, Implied Survivor's Guilt, Implied/Referenced Canonical Character Death, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Mentions of Canonical Limb Loss, Service Dog Sunkist, Synesthesia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:27:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25212409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celestial_archivist/pseuds/nbenrey-real
Summary: The play has finished, the audience applauds- the puppet-master, no longer concerned with what the story has in store, releases the puppet’s strings. The actors have left the burning stage behind, and entered a world not predetermined by a script.The puppet finds himself suddenly, brutally aware that this also means the actors have no guarantee of a continued happy ending, and decides that he’ll simply have to build it himself.
Relationships: Bubby/Dr. Coomer (implied), Gordon Freeman & John Freeman, Tommy Coolatta & Gordon Freeman
Series: A Watsonian Perspective [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1806124
Comments: 16
Kudos: 94





	1. Back in Kansas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warnings & Bonus Tags in end notes.

Your name is Gordon Freeman, and this has been the longest birthday party of your goddamn life.

This little _shindig_ lasted far too fucking long- alright, sure, it was a fucking relief to _finally_ be able to eat something- even if it was mostly cheap, greasy pizza or just plain oven-baked white-meat wings. Okay, to be fair the veggie trays nearly made you cry because after who-knows-how-long of drinking nothing but fucking _soda_ the urge to shove handfuls of baby carrots into your mouth and guzzle water was enormous.

Hell, it was even one of the locations with a fucking salad bar, which you only discovered almost an hour in after squirreling away to the bathroom to remove the artificial skin-mesh on your prosthetic hand before it gave you an aneurysm- but _five hours_??

You’re sorry, but _five fucking hours_ of partying is too much, after the fucking apocalypse- and then! Then that fucker- Mr. Coolatta, you _guess_ , had the audacity to _force you at gunpoint_ to sit through another **_THREE HOURS_ ** of some- movie, you can’t even remember from how absolutely _fried_ your brain is right now. Something about video games? Fuck if you know.

You love Tommy, _really_ , but fuck man you need to go _home_. You’re fucking _exhausted_.

You’re all _finally_ exiting the theater, and you have no idea how late it is, really- apparently Tommy’s dad had _rented out_ the damn thing. The sun has long since set while you were in there, and it’s already getting a little cold- though you have to admit, the chill of the desert breeze on your cheeks and gentle quiet of the night is a pleasant contrast to the hectic last few-

You guess days, but you’re not really sure. Your recollection of time moves sluggishly, events strange and confusing and sometimes simply rushed on by.

Tommy’s dad is saying something you don’t quite hear, too busy taking a deep breath of nighttime air, relishing how fresh and clear your lungs feel just from this alone. After days of nothing but lab air- that grew steadily stagnant from lack of circulation- after smoke and gunpowder and the sharp iron tang of dried blood or sickly-sweet smell of the decaying, putrefying corpses of your fellow coworkers- this is- 

It’s nice, you think. Just to be able to _breathe_. You’re simultaneously happy and somewhat guilty you were lucky enough to still be able to, after everything.

You do manage to catch the last of the conversation, your brain suddenly remembering to pay attention to the world around you when you hear Mr. Coolatta saying something about this being where he gets off. He tells Tommy he’ll have a lot of… paperwork. To deal with thanks to this little- _incident_ , which means he’ll likely not be able to make another appearance _in person_ for quite a while- though he will _call_ as soon as he can, however. 

The way he speaks, the inflection and little pauses is- strange, you think, and even the synesthesiac wisps of color that catch your eye seem to _glow_ the same way you keep catching his eyes doing, in the dark. It’s unsettling, the way even your own _perception_ shifts and bends around him, and out the corner of your eye you keep catching little flits of something malachite and poison, _lurking_ just behind him from every angle. 

You try to ignore that _Tommy’s_ eyes glow the same way, like yellow sunshine from his pupils. It’s surprisingly easy- for some reason you cannot fathom, he’s not _nearly_ as unsettling.

Speaking of Tommy, he’s fidgeting as his dad speaks- wringing and pulling on his fingers, picking up his legs and stepping in place repeatedly, like he’s nervous and unsure about moving forward. He keeps looking at his dad like he wants to say or do something, and you belatedly realize he’s probably trying to figure out if it’d be weird to ask for a hug before he leaves- you think this might be the first time they’ve met, given what you recall of Tommy’s history.

You take a careful step backwards so you’re behind the group, just out of sight-line, making a small half-wave with your new prosthetic to get Mr. Coolatta's attention. His eyes shift to look at you, almost imperceptibly, and you silently mouth ‘ _he wants you to give him a hug_ ’ subtly motioning to Tommy. Mr. Coolatta, on his part, blinks, in a way that almost seems surprised, and seems to be processing what you’ve said. 

You make a little palms-up ‘well go on then’ motion with your hands, and Mr. Coolatta steps forward to give his son a fumbling, half-hug around his shoulders, like he’s never hugged someone before. Maybe he hasn’t. Awkward as it is, though, you see Tommy immediately melt into the contact- soon after shifting to give his dad a tight, waist-squeezing hug that leaves Mr. Coolatta with a mixture of surprise and confusion that’s almost comical on his gaunt, uncanny face.

You have to cover your mouth with your hand to hide the slight smile you have.

Tommy stands back up from the hug with an almost bouncy enthusiasm, rocking on his heels a little and grinning- gives his dad a little wave and a cheerful ‘ _bye Mr. dad!!_ ’ that seems to only further Mr. Coolatta's stunned expression, before Mr. Coolatta gives Tommy a little, slightly unsure, wave himself. He then promptly turns around to face the parking lot, steps off the curb, and you blink in surprise. 

He has completely vanished into thin air, like a phantom passenger in an old truck stop story.

Alright, sure, adult life is already so fucking weird, this might as well happen.

God you want to go home. You voice as much, telling the rest you’re sure they have some wonderful, fun plans for the evening but you really need to get back to your apartment and get a shower and some rest. You’ve got to pick up your car later too, because it’s-

It’s still at work. 

You don’t have any way to get home. You’re going to have to _walk_.

You are legitimately about to cry, because god you are so tired and you have been through a major disaster, a straight up apocalypse, a military attack, a major traumatic event, and literal alien hell- and you are going to have to fucking _walk_ home. You have done so much walking. _So much_. You don’t want to walk anymore you just want to go home and go to sleep you _lost a fucking hand_ -

Bubby pinches your cheek before the growing wetness in your eyes can spill over and send you into a full on stress-induced panic-attack, and you flinch back and rub at the reddening flesh, making a little tired whine from the pain.

“Shut the _fuck_ up, oh my god, don’t start fucking crying over a god _damn_ automobile. I’ll just fucking jack a car and _drive_ you home, you goddamn bitch baby motherfucker.”

Bubby is rolling their eyes, poking the chest of your HEV suit for emphasis every so often, looking like the most put-upon person on the face of the planet. They are such a smug fucking asshole. You kind of want to hug them. Would that be weird? Are you at the hugging stage now?

Actually, you don’t really care. They owe you a hand, they can get fucking hugged for actually trying to be nice for once, the fucker. 

Fucking- weird ass clone-tube-guy with monster-prototype-bullshit, turns into a car- wait. 

For some reason you have just remembered something incredibly stupid and you’re not quite sure if you imagined it or not.

“Wait- can't you just- didn't you _become_ a fucking car before, Bubby? Back in- what did we call it, Xen?? The- the weird alien teleporter-bullshit bossfight place. I feel like that's a thing you can do. I didn't hallucinate that right. Please tell me i did not hallucinate Bubby becoming fucking a car guys i will lose my shit if you fuck with me about this I am so _fucking_ tired guys-”

Bubby pinches your cheek again, and this time you lightly slap their hand in response.

“Shut the fuck! What is your problem.”

Bubby folds their arms over their chest and looks away, puffing up their cheeks and letting out a huff like they’re a moody fucking teenager. 

  
  


“Fuck you, I’m fucking tired, all right? My legs hurt from all the fucking dancing we did before the movie and i’m not spending my goddamn energy just to drive your dumb ass home because you’ll have a breakdown over a little _walking_. We’re stealing a fucking car.”

You are so fucking tired. You are so fucking exhausted, you don’t even care. 

“Okay.” 

Your voice is soft, almost creaky, but whatever, as long as they heard you.

  
  


Bubby just kind of blinks behind their glasses, unfolding their arms and holding them up like they’re confused, like they didn’t expect to get this far, rapidly looking back and forth at your face.

“Wait, really? Fuck, that was easy! Alright fuckers help me find a car to steal before Gordon grows _morals_ again! Grand theft auto, bitches!!”

They are so fucking excited to commit crimes. They are so jazzed to be a jerk and a menace to society in general. You think you might honestly kind of love Bubby’s batshit energy, actually, when there’s no direct threat of alien or military induced death or injury involved. Bubby is good, perhaps.

* * *

You sit down on the cold concrete of the sidewalk, resting your legs near where Tommy has his little compiled present bags, while Bubby and Coomer search for a suitable car to steal. Sunkist comes over to sit next to you, soon followed by Tommy, who bunches his lab coat closer to his body- you wonder if he’s cold. He does a half-walk in a little circle, so tight it might as well be a spin, and sits down, leaning against Sunkist and yawning sleepily.

Looks like he’s pretty tired after everything, too, in spite of all the Soda.

A few minutes pass in blessed, pleasant _silence_ , Tommy lightly dozing in Sunkist's fur while they occasionally nose you whenever you get anxious again- when you hear Bubby yell something along the lines of “WHAT A FUCKING _DUMB ASS!_ ” in excitement. It makes Sunkist perk up and wakes Tommy from his stupor, and you take his hand to help him up as he groggily wipes the sleep from his eyes.

When you look to where you heard Bubby's voice, you see Dr. Coomer waving at you from further down the street, next to some rectangular car painted a pearlescent Caribbean Blue, a wide smile on their face. As you get closer, you can see it’s some sort of classic convertible- a nice one, from the looks of it, though it’s not the fucking Caddy from Black Mesa. God you wish you could’ve nabbed that thing.

Bubby is sitting upside-down in the driver's seat, head under the dash and legs over the back of the headrest, fiddling with the wires beneath. They ask if one of you has a bobby pin on you, which you don’t- Tommy offers a paper clip from one of his lab coat pockets, which they scoff at, but take nonetheless. You comment on how nice the car is, and they explain that they were just going to get a closer look- but when they saw that someone left the roof down like a dumbass, fuck, how could they NOT steal it? The paintjob fucking slaps!

You are kind of inclined to agree, it does look pretty fucking sick.

Coomer, in response, starts infodumping about Metallic Paint, obviously quoting the entire Wikipedia article, _verbatim_. You’re too tired to give a shit about the morality of this interaction, at this point, and given how sleepy Tommy looks you think he is too. You pat him on the arm a little in solidarity, and he gives you a sleepy smile. Dr. Coomer pops the trunk open for Sunkist, who diligently loads his presents while you both just kind of chill, leaning against the car while Bubby works and Coomer tells you about the various variations of metallic automobile paints.

Bubby wiggles upright in the seat, does something to the ignition, and presses on the gas pedal. The car roars to life, and Bubby immediately flashes you a sharp-toothed, feral grin, nearly beaming. You laugh a little under your breath and give them two thumbs up- and god- isn’t that a trip, that you can even still _DO_ that now, after everything?- which makes them sit up straight and puff out their chest in pride. 

You are suddenly aware that they are in the driver's seat, and memories of them driving the Caddy makes you wince. Tommy doesn’t look very confident either, opening and closing his mouth like he’s trying to find the best way to bring it up, hands resting in Sunkist's fur. You look to Dr. Coomer, who blinks for a moment, but then makes a little ‘ah-ha!’ face, apparently understanding now your reactions to this situation.

“Bubby, dear, perhaps i should drive, actually? Your style is lovely for trips and such, but now that we're out of Black Mesa, there are traffic laws to worry about! We wouldn’t want to get our new ride impounded if we were to be caught, now, hmm?”

Dr. Coomer's voice is soft, not at all accusing, but you still see Bubby’s face sour and their lips curl back like they're about to snarl at them- instead they seem to consciously force their shoulders to relax, let out an annoyed huff, and roll their eyes. They grumble under their breath as they scoot over to slump grumpily in the passenger seat, arms folded, entire posture scrunched in annoyance.

You feel kind of bad, but they’re mumbling that you all should just hurry up and go the fuck _home_ , so you choose not to push them on it. Instead you wait for the rest of the group to get situated- Sunkist hops directly into the middle of the back, with Tommy choosing to walk around to sit right behind Bubby, putting on their belt almost immediately and struggling to buckle in Sunkist’s large form as a result.

You flop into the seat behind Coomer and help him buckle his extremely large, perfect immortal soda dog into the seat. God your life is _weird_.

Dr. Coomer takes the wheel, but before they begin driving they reach over to pat Bubby’s knee apologetically, and you can see them marginally relax when they do so- though again, they just kind of huff, and mumble about hurrying up and getting a move on, they want to go _home_ already. Something about this nags at you while Coomer drives, asking for your address. 

Wait.

“Bubby? I thought you- where do you even live? You’re a Black Mesa test tube baby, right- i mean, do you even _have_ a house up here??” 

You don’t miss the way Bubby slightly flinches at the word ‘tube’, and you silently file away that you should avoid that word if at all possible from now on. They cover it up with antagonistic bluster almost immediately, calling you stupid, of _course_ they’re a damn test tube baby, you _saw_ their prototypes- hell, you even fought them. You bring the conversation back to the house thing.

“So _what_ ? Who needs a fucking house? I’ll just _steal_ one.”

You don’t even have time to process either the absurdity and implications of that statement, or the latent realization that ‘ _oh fuck wait is Bubby homeless now did i make Bubby homeless_ ’, because both Tommy and Dr. Coomer are already talking. You have to take a second to consciously understand the two different threads of speech happening in the car, first focusing on dissecting Dr. Coomers because they’re likely to forget what they even said not a second later.

“It’s quite alright! I will simply allow our dear friend Bubby to stay with me, Gordon! Friends do look after friends, after all.”

Coomer beams as they’re talking, and Bubby puffs out their cheeks and looks away in a way that almost seems… shy? You kind of wonder if there’s something you missed between these two. You file that away to dissect later and refocus on the other person in the conversation said simultaneously.

“If Dr. Bubby has to- If Bubby needs somewhere to- needs a house, he can always come live in my shed, Mr. Freeman!”

Tommy’s reply is so- _earnest_ , it kind of throws you for a loop. Did he really think it’s okay for people to just live in sheds? Insulation from poor weather and insects aside, Bubby would probably burn anything without a fire alarm system down on day one of living there. Maybe even more than just the shed.

“Yeah, uh- no Tommy, I think we should go with Dr. Coomer’s idea. I’m not sure if you are aware of this, but I am pretty certain people are not generally supposed to live in sheds, man.”

You shake your head a little, looking over to where Tommy is adjusting Sunkist's collar, as his face runs through a series of emotions you don’t quite have the speed to parse at the moment but settling on- almost chagrined, maybe a hint of mild indignation. He puffs out his cheeks for a second, letting out a small huff.

“Okay so- I mean it might not be much- it may not look nice on the outside, but it’s not terrible- i don’t mind it Mr. Freeman! It’s cozy."

Time almost feels like it freezes.

Your brain is still processing all the implications of that statement when Dr. Coomer, in an odd show of propriety for once, slowly begins to bring the car to a stop- what little of you can see of their normally-eternally-cheerful face stares forward, gears turning in, looking more perturbed by the moment. 

Bubby turns around in their seat, unbuckled (Your mind supplies you with every horrific depiction of a car accident you’ve ever seen, and you have to consciously shift your focus back to the subject at hand), digging their knees into the leather upholstery, with the most intense look you think you’ve ever seen from them- you can’t quite place the emotion in it, some mixture of incredulous disbelief and raw disgust that you suppose is the closest thing Bubby can get to genuine concern behind all their bluster. 

You are suddenly reminded that Bubby’s tube had no actual exit from it’s interior, and the pang of empathy is something you have to actively suppress while you try to focus on processing Tommy's words instead.

“T-” 

Your words slip for a moment, and you have to lick your lips as you suppress the deep-seated urge to shift into sign, not knowing if any of your friends can read it, aware that Tommy _processes_ differently than most people and thus might have trouble with it regardless.

“Tommy. Are you- do you actually live in a goddamn _shed_.”

It is not a question, really. More a surprised and incredulous statement of fact, a request perhaps to prove your interpretation wrong, to reassure you that’s not the case. Tommy, apparently only just now recognizing the emotional state currently running through the car, shifts uncomfortably in his seat. 

You are suddenly and acutely aware of how Tommy, when you asked him where he was from back in Black Mesa, still described himself as an ‘Orphan’ in spite of being nearly 37- not a ‘Former Orphan’, not a phrase someone who had who had aged out of the system and gone on to make a home for themselves would use, but instead like someone who was still waiting in the sidelines. You are also aware that today seemed to be the first time he even _met_ his dad.

Tommy fidgets, and Sunkist leans into him from where they’re sitting in the middle of the seats, nuzzling into his ribs. He buries his hands into their fur, scooting them closer to him, and your mind supplies you with the memory of Tommy offhandedly mentioning- when you’d asked why they were allowed in the restaurant- that Sunkist was ‘The Perfect Emotional Support and Service Dog’. 

Your chest becomes increasingly tight as your mind promptly begins to run through every single thing you’d ever learned about the foster system, the way it bends and breaks even the neurotypical children in it’s midst, the way obviously disabled children are left behind to _rot_. Your mind supplies you with Tommy, still young enough to pick ‘Coolatta’ as his name, who stutters and stims and sometimes goes nonverbal as he processes what’s been said.

You did not think you still had enough energy left, after everything, for your chest and bones to burn in rage like this. You are reminded of the raw grief you get whenever you stumble across another article about a fellow autistic- especially when it’s a child- who has been royally fucked over or even _killed_ by the people who were meant to protect them.

You have to actively open and pop your jaw to stop yourself from bruxing your teeth.

Tommy is still silent, avoiding eye contact- no, that’s not accurate, most of your team already doesn’t make eye contact- you suppose that’s to be an expected quirk of having so many obviously neuroatypical people in one group. He’s avoiding looking at anybody, eyes shifting from Sunkist to the back of his leather seat behind him, chewing on his lip as he processes his words.

“It’s…” Tommy squirms nervously in his seat, threading his fingers further into Sunkist's long fur “It’s a large- it’s a _big_ shed, Mister Freeman...?”

You have to process this for a moment, as the rest of your companions begin to speak, running over each-others sentences as they reply. Bubby, always _subtle_ in their concerns, none-the-less has the barest hint of- you guess you’d call it ‘distress’, commenting with a too-sharp exclamation of “Fucking christ, man-!” that causes Tommy to flinch back and scoot down slightly in his seat, before Bubby forces their voice down to a softer level- that "a shitty shed is only _barely_ better than a goddamn tube-". 

You are both inclined to agree and simultaneously want to point out to Bubby that there is an incredible amount of emphasis they should place on that ' _barely '_.

Dr. Coomer, on their part, manages to retain their always-cheerful reassuring tone, although you _can_ hear the barest hint of their unsettlement in it- 

“Well! That is rather...concerning, Tommy! After all, the New Mexico weather can get rather nasty, you know! Are you quite sure-” 

You don’t hear the rest of what Dr. Coomer says, instead remembering when your apartment's AC broke last June, during that awful heat-wave- the highs got up into the 90’s and you had to ask John to let Joshua stay over because you were terrified of him getting heat stroke. Even with the insulation, and fans on full blast, you were so uncomfortable you ended up having half a dozen meltdowns.

You groan and cover your face with your arm as you are struck with a wave of hyperempathy at the mental image of Tommy, mid-meltdown and crying, doing his best to keep his own emotional service dog from getting overheated in an uninsulated fucking shed as the temperatures reach record highs. _Fuck_.

Logically, you know full well that you are projecting your own anxieties and overexaggerating the situation. Sunkist is an immortal dog, possibly _literally_ made of actual Sunkist brand soda. Tommy is older than your own _brother_ , who- in spite of your anxieties and mother-henning over him- holds down a steady job, performs stunts, _has a son_ . By all accounts, Tommy can take care of his own damn self, deal with whatever issues crop up in his life, without any help from _you_.

This does _not_ stop the mixture of protective instincts and guilt that rolls over you like a freight train. 

You already _know_ you’re never going to be able to sleep if you don’t do something about this- the guilt and anxiety will eat you alive and make your brain hyperfocus on every possible worst case scenario for _weeks_ after. You slowly drag your hand down your face, leaning back in the seat, and take a deep breath to steady yourself. 

“Okay. _Okay-_ ”

You try to collect your thoughts out of the emotional swirl that’s clogging your head. You sit up straighter in the seat, bite the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from clenching your jaw or grinding your teeth again, and start again.

“Okay, Tommy? No. No, no, no, no fucking way. You are coming to live with me, I am _NOT_ letting you go back to a goddamn _shed_ . My apartment might not be _BIG_ but it's at least got goddamn _temperature control_.”

Tommy looks surprised, maybe even- hopeful, grateful? You can’t quite tell- for a moment, and god does that just makes your chest ache worse- but that’s quickly squashed down to a discomforted grimace- some mix of guilt and embarrassment that you can’t quite place. Tommy starts to fidget more until he's pulling on each of his fingers in some pattern you don’t recognize, Sunkist nosing his side lightly in response.

“You- you _really don't_ have to do that Mister Freeman, it really is- it’s not a big deal, it’s _fine_ -” 

“This isn’t an argument Tommy.”

You cut him off immediately, and you have to remind yourself not to let your voice betray the sudden rage that springs to the forefront as your brain says ‘ _who taught him to insist that not even the bare minimum was fine, to not ask for better, even when he’s nearly forty, and how to i remove their fucking_ **_spine_** _-_ ’.

“You’re living with me until we can get you an actual apartment. Jesus christ man, who the _fuck_ let you live like this for so long.”

You only just realize your mistake in phrasing as you see Tommy's face go from questioning as he processes what you said, to a near-bitter form of indignation, and he almost looks like he’s about to _snarl_ at you- but instead he huffs and threads his hands in Sunkist's fur, trying to keep a steady tone.

“I’m- I’m almost forty- I’m thirty- thirty seven, Mr.Freeman! I’m an adult who can do what he- who can make his own choices! It was affordable, and- and student loans aren't _cheap_ , you know! I have a- a lotta degrees, and I work _hard_ , Mr. Freeman, I-"

Tommy huffs again, flapping his hand by his face and obviously frustrated, as Sunkist leans up to lick his cheek- and you are suddenly left fumbling for how in the world to deescalate this conversation and make it clear that you weren’t trying to be- condescending, belittling, _infantilizing_ , you just-

You just don’t want your friend to go home to a goddamn _shed_ after facing down the apocalypse, can’t handle the thought of not knowing if he’ll be _safe_.

“No, no- yeah, man, of _course_ \- I didn’t- _I don’t_ -” 

You take a breath, making small, quick, half-formed signs to yourself as you sort through your words for a moment before trying again. _Fuck_ , you wish you were better with talking on the fly.

“I mean, I get that?? Between that and the medical debts from Joshua I uh- I had to move back in with my brother for a while, you know?”

Tommy folds his arms a little, scrunching back into the seat, but he’s looking at you expectantly- really listening to you as you try to dig yourself out of the hole you all-too-easily threw yourself bodily into, head-up-ass and foot-in-mouth.

“And- and yeah!! You’re a grown adult! Who can make his own choices!! Smoke or drink or whatever and shit-! But I’m not- I don’t- _uh-_ ”

You’re fumbling again, and you know you’ll just fuck this up even more if you overcompensate, so you just blurt out the first thing that makes sense to your overly-fried brain, hoping it at least doesn’t make the situation worse.

“I wouldn’t be able to sleep at night if I let one of my _best_ _friends_ stay in a shed after- after the fucking _apocalypse_ \- when I’ve got a perfectly good apartment I’m already _paying for_. Hell, man, if it weren't for Doctor Coomer offering up their place to Bubby, I was gonna offer to let _them_ stay with me too-”

At this, Bubby launches themself up in their seat, only being able to let out a strangled ‘Wait, _what_ -’ before Doctor Coomer- in a startling fit of social grace, for once- pushes them down, apparently recognizing this is Not The Time for interruptions. They only hiss and snarl a little in response, their lips curling back to reveal the sharp needle-like teeth that line their mouth in consecutive rows, like a shark’s.

Tommy, on his part, has seemed to relax a bit, chewing on his lip- he’s obviously considering what you’ve said, and really you should just _shut up_ , _quit while you’re ahead_ , _stop_ **_talking_** \- but your anxiety has always run faster than your logic has, and you’re already continuing before you can stop yourself.

“And- and like, listen, it’s been a long week for me, i’m exhausted, i’m anxious, I don’t know- I just feel like i’d feel better if I had you over I guess? I mean, a friend would help anyways or whatever, and you’re the one with- an actual, like, support animal, so _clearly_ you’d get the whole _brain thing_ , I-”

You pinch the bridge of your nose, sighing as you try to figure out what the fuck you’re even trying to _say_ at this point, as Tommy tilts his head in processing- you’re reminded of the pose a dog makes when it’s trying to hear a command, and you immediately admonish yourself for the animal comparison when you’re _already_ knee-deep in accidental insults- when Tommy lets out a soft ‘ _oh!_ ’ of apparent understanding.

You look up, worried about what conclusion Tommy’s come to about all this- but he’s smiling, looking- sympathetic?- as he gently pats your leg like he’s trying to be reassuring. The action is entirely unexpected, and for a moment you’re thrown for a loop, having somehow lost the course of the conversation in only a few brief seconds of time.

“Aww, Mister Freeman, that’s okay- of course you’d be scared- it’s scary to go home without- without one of us after everything that’s happened! I don’t mind staying with you if it makes you- if it helps you feel better! I’m sorry I didn’t understand what you meant at first.”

You- you almost want to argue about that conclusion, but he’s not- entirely wrong, and the prospect of putting the foot that you _just managed_ to extract from the hole you dug yourself and shoving it right back in your mouth just. Dunks that possibility into the ocean. Instead you just rub your eyes tiredly, giving out a half-hearted “Okay, thank you Tommy.”, and hope that this mess you’ve gotten yourself into goes better than the last one.

At that moment, Bubby manages to wiggle their way out from under Doctor Coomers arm and suddenly stands up in their seat, gripping the back of their chair for balance as they lean over into your space in the back of the still-stopped car.

“Shut the fuck up, can we go back to the fact that your bitch-baby-ass would let _ME_ stay in _YOUR_ house. ME, **_BUBBY_ **??”

You are going to lose your shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warnings:  
> -Brief mention of theoretical homelessness  
> -Breif mention of theoretical car accidents  
> -Implied/discussed ableism & emotional abuse consistent with standard american institutional issues re: autistic children  
> -Breif mention of meltdowns  
> -Brief mention of theoretical heatstroke related to poor living conditions  
> -Brief violent thoughts related to protective instincts  
> -Unintentional infantalizing phrasing between two autistic characters
> 
> Bonus Tags: Gordon thinks a lot about worst-case-scenarios, & is hyper-aware of the ways in which people like him are mistreated, what if i were to simply project all of my feelings about my fellow neurodivergents onto gordon, i am trying to clean up the tags but by god i don't know what im doing, please help me
> 
> This took so long to get done because i kept getting distracted by other fics in this series, i am suffering, it's going to be so long between updates because of my bitch ass brain guys i am so sorry but [shaggy voice] like, perish man.


	2. And You May Find Yourself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dr. Coomer pulls you out of your internal social-anxieties as he pulls the car to a stop in front of... Tommy’s...
> 
> House is not the right word for this.
> 
> It’s a weathered shack that’s barely the size of, what, a college dorm at most? Fuck, he really wasn’t exaggerating when he said ‘large shed’, was he. It’s resting in a weed-filled, densely overgrown lot- it looks like there were wildflowers planted here, maybe, once, but it’s clearly not been maintained for years. It’s eerie, especially in the quiet dead of night. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warnings & Bonus Tags in end notes.

You are too fucking tired to lose your shit, but by god that is not going to stop Bubby from fucking _trying_.

They’ve kept the argument about you actually being willing to let them potentially live with you going the _entire drive_ . You really wish you’d just get to Tommy’s already. The worst part is they just. _Keep_ bringing up shit they did in Black Mesa- the fires, the insults, _your hand_ \- as if to prove their point on why you- what are they even _arguing_ at this point, that you shouldn't even _consider_ letting them live with you? All it does is make you angry and _tired_. 

Why are they so insistent on making you _want_ to just leave them behind to rot. Do they not want- do they just think they don’t _deserve_ to be around you, or something?

...You think you might have just hit the nail on the head, actually, thinking about it. Bubby is- aggressive in nature, to put it mildly, but also weirdly- attention seeking? They liked to bring you things and show off their skills back in Black Mesa. You didn’t really have the time nor energy given all the stress and danger to _analyze_ their behavior at the time, but thinking back on it- they kind of remind you of those kids in highschool who would gladly infodump to any who would listen, but would also snap and snarl and raise their hackles at the first sign of criticism. 

Defensive mechanisms born of cruelty and past experiences. You suddenly remember asking them if they had ever had a friend before, and they replied ‘ _four_ ’, even though you had just met that day.

You wonder if maybe it’d be too much to ask for a meteor to hit the former site of Black Mesa and reduce even it’s rubble and ash to atmospheric vapors. Fuck, you hate that place.

You choose to interrupt their current rant- though they make a slight snarl at you- because damned if your empathy will allow you to let even _Bubby_ feel anything close to the sick feeling you get in your chest from guilt when you even _remotely_ think you’ve fucked up and hurt a friend. Even if they _are_ an incredibly rude asshole with no moral compass bar ‘fuck bootboys’ and ‘cutting off hands is kind of a little fucked up, actually’. You have such high standards.

“Bubby. _Bubby_ . I literally do not give a shit about this. I really could not give five less fucks about any of the shit you’ve done or _whatever else_ happened in Black Mesa. There has been just- _so much shit_ happening, my dude. As far as I'm concerned you, as my _friend_ , have more than earned any forgiveness I have for past actions. So PLEASE _shut the fuck up_ about it.”

They kind of- freeze, for a second, turned around in their seat (though thankfully buckled in this time), when you say ‘ _friend_ ’- like they didn’t expect to still be counted as one. Then they immediately hunch up their shoulders, hackles raised, and make a snarling motion like they’re about to start in on another rant- only to be stopped by a gentle pat on the shoulder from Dr. Coomer, still watching the road. 

They immediately let their shoulder’s down from their hunched position and take a few, small, steadying breaths- which they cover up with an exasperated-sounding huff. They cross their arms in apparent annoyance, too, but you don’t miss how they seem to be doing that to disguise the fact that they’re rubbing at them in a way that distinctly gives off the impression of self-consciousness.

“Yeah, well, of course, you’re too much of a- a _bitchbaby_ to hold a grudge for long, everyone _knows_ that, just _look at you_ , but- don’t you have a fucking _kid_ or whatever to worry about, though?”

You are- genuinely surprised, that they even _remembered_ that, given you mentioned it all of- what, _twice_ , back in Black Mesa? There was so much stress and death and hectic _bullshit_ that you basically put a block on anything involving Joshua just to avoid _breaking down_ about if he’d be okay without you, if something happened and you didn’t make it out. You flounder with your reply for a moment, caught off guard, babbling a bit when you do.

“I mean- I mean yeah, but like- Joshua would be _fine_ , he’s probably not even home right now since my brother was taking care of him while i went to work and he probably took him back to his house, or maybe to stay with dad in Santa Fe after i didn’t call for a while-”

_Oh fuck._ Your brain was so fried after the shitstorm that you completely forgot to fucking call during the party and tell your brother you weren’t fucking dead. 

You are such a shitty son and brother and father, how did you do this. MIT graduate in theoretical physics your fucking ass, oh my god Gordon, what the fuck. 

You groan, cupping your face in your hands as you lean your head back in exhaustion and exasperation. 

“Fuck me, i completely- shit, i hope John’s not panicking too bad about all of this, i have _no idea_ how much they’re even letting out about Black Mesa. How long were we even _gone_ for? It felt like at least a week, fuck.” 

You keep mumbling ‘fuck’ under your breath a few more times, which causes Sunkist to nose you in the side and gently paw your leg in response. You pull your prosthetic hand off your face to look at Tommy.

“I’m gonna have to call him after we get home- Tommy, do you think we can pick up your stuff tomorrow, actually? I need to get this shit sorted out and check in on my kid before we start fucking- moving house and shit, man.”

He kind of blinks for a second, and you just wait for his reply- his eyes rapidly shift as he processes, apparently deliberating something internally. He starts to fidget again, pulling at his fingers in sequence, and you wonder if there isn’t a stim toy that’d be less hard on his hands- he probably already has some, honestly, but you can’t help but immediately want to go buy him one anyways. Sunkist noses his side encouragingly, and gives his cheek a small lick.

“U- um, can i still grab- can i at least get um, my weighted blanket and Sunkist's stuff- uh, their service vest and the like? Those things are kind of important- i kind of need that sort of- those type of things, sorry-”

He looks almost sheepish about it, and you belatedly realize you might have fucked up your phrasing a little bit again, because you didn’t mean to imply, like- totally skipping their house entirely- god, fuck, you really wish internalizing neurotypical social rules and ways of communicating over the years hadn’t left you so fucking _floundering_ at the aspect of talking to anyone like you.

“Oh-! Oh yeah, no, of course dude, overnight and important stuff is- _obviously_ it's fine to go grab that first, man, I mean we're already on the way and everything-? I just mean like- the whole shebang? This car isn't exactly good for moving house, uh- furniture and shit, I mean, you know?”

You are rapidly losing the ability to string together sentences properly with how exhausted you are and how many emotions you have been feeling just- in general, and are not quite sure how _coherent_ that really was. Tommy, though, seems to have understood your intended meaning fine, as he immediately perks up in his seat and gives you a beaming smile, saying something you can’t process fully but sounds vaguely like an ‘O-oh! Okay, thank you Mr. Freeman!’ and waving his hands in his overly-long coat sleeves happily.

It’s… nice to see him so happy, actually- stimming and smiling instead of nervously fidgeting and shrinking in on himself like he has been. He was so scared back in Black Mesa- though he seemed to cope okay and keep his bearings throughout everything better than most of your group, even during the party he seemed a bit wound up- probably overwhelmed by all the things that had been happening and meeting his dad for the first time. 

You’re too sleepy to focus very well, at this point, well on the verge of dozing off- but you still make a point to give Tommy a half-hearted, sleepy smile and a spur of the moment impression of that the guy with chainsaw hand saying ‘grooovy’ in reply, wiggling your prosthetic's fingers- your own dumb joke making you laugh a little. You even do a little stim yourself- the one that always reminds you of jazz hands- back at him, which just makes Tommy beam wider in response and stim more exuberantly, happily wiggling in his seat. 

It’s nice to see your friend happy, from something so small, and it makes falling asleep for the rest of the drive easy- for the first time since the start of all this, sleep is peaceful.

* * *

You’re only woken up, groggily stretching in your seat, when the car begins to slow down and it makes the bumps and potholes in the road more apparent- too apparent, actually, and as you blink the sleep out of your eyes and readjust your still-cracked glasses- _shit_ , you need to get these repaired after you grab your spares- it becomes obvious as to _why_. 

The neighborhood you’re currently driving through is… not faring well, it seems, and appears to have been that way for some time. The houses are run down, many of them with foreclosure signs or eviction notices, and the lawns are long-overgrown. Some have graffiti, and there’s empty, weed-filled lots abound where start-up industrial projects were started and soon after abandoned due to inevitable economical nonviableity. 

You’d put _money_ on the fact that the only things left around here are probably liquor stores and pawn shops. It’d be a lot more disconcerting if Tommy hadn’t already blown that out of the water by saying he lived in a _shed_. 

The car is slowing down, and Tommy’s looking fidgety and self-conscious again- you figure you’re somewhere near his address, probably anxious about how you all will react given your concern earlier. You make a point of silently catching his attention with a wave of your prosthetic and smile at him, doing a little wiggle with your shoulder. In spite of his nervous look, he does a little wiggle too, a toothy smile blooming on his face.

He has a gap in his front teeth- you don’t think you really noticed before, had he never grinned before now? You also now realize they’re far sharper than they should be, especially the canines- chunkier too- almost they’re made for cracking bone, like- a hyena’s, you guess. If you didn’t know better you’d have assumed he was wearing plastic vampire fangs or something- which somehow makes this not unsettling or uncanny so much as- kind of adorable?

Okay maybe you should stop having lengthy internal monologues about your apparently _also_ inhuman friends weird freaky bone crushing teeth being cute. Be normal Gordon. Gordon Normalman.

Luckily for you, Dr. Coomer pulls you out of your internal social-anxieties as he pulls the car to a stop in front of... Tommy’s...

  
  


House is not the right word for this.

  
  


It’s a weathered shack that’s barely the size of, what, a college dorm at _most_ ? Fuck, he really wasn’t exaggerating when he said ‘large shed’, was he. It’s resting in a weed-filled, densely overgrown lot- it looks like there were wildflowers planted here, maybe, once, but it’s clearly not been maintained for _years_. It’s eerie, especially in the quiet dead of night. 

The sole remaining area not surrounded in bushes and brambles is a small section of well-worn dead grass, split down the middle by a path of loose gravel and stepping stones that leads to the entrance. An rickety-looking old chair rests just to the right of the door, it’s upholstery long since stained and destroyed by weathering. There’s a little wooden wishing well off to the left side that’s filled with soil and long-dead plants, it’s old paint faded, chipped away, and sun-worn.

The only items that look _new_ here are a large variety of colorful dog toys and other things obviously meant for Sunkist. 

To the left of the door, under the window, is a brightly painted, well-maintained dog house- it seemed like it should be far too small for Sunkist, though, which is odd- there’s an empty, bright-yellow double-sided dog bowl right beside it. A bright green bin sits next to the gate, filled with a variety of different balls all colored pink, yellow, or blue. There's a little soccer net- the kind you’d buy for a toddler- with a large multicolored ball still inside nestled in the grass nearby. 

A small kiddie pool sits off to the right, having somewhat deflated- it’s water has evaporated a considerable amount, but the fact it still _has_ water at all clue’s you in that your time in Black Mesa must’ve been a lot shorter than it initially seemed. You only belatedly realize it’s color scheme is an exact match for the pan flag after a few blinks, still wiping the sleep from your eyes.

Tommy looks… somewhat perturbed, for a second, his eyes scanning the lot, but he quickly gives his head a little shake and hops out of the car, Sunkist on his heels. You scootch over the seats to follow him, and as you do you catch Bubby giving Dr. Coomer a _look_ you can’t quite decipher- arms crossed and worrying their lip with their too-sharp, almost translucent teeth. Dr. Coomer, themself, simply gives Bubby another gentle pat on the shoulder. 

You give the other shoulder of their seat a pat of your own as you exit, too, hoping it’ll help assuage them a little without making them too self conscious.

Tommy pats his coat pockets as he walks up to the door, apparently finding nothing- shit, did he leave his keys back in Black Mesa? You hope he has a spare set somewhere.

Tommy stretches his hands behind his head, his back giving a loud pop in response which makes you wince- oh shit, has he been stooping this whole time? You hadn’t noticed, but fuck, he’s like half a foot taller than you thought he was, jesus. Leaning forward, he makes a little ‘up!’ motion to Sunkist with his hand, who proceeds to hop onto their doghouse, then onto Tommy's shoulders- god, how much did they have to weigh- at least, what, 200 pounds, more with their sheer size? How fucking _strong_ is Tommy??

Sunkist proceeds to use this extra bit of height to jump up to the edge of the roof with their front paws, Tommy immediately shifting to catch their back paws and push them up further, acting as balance as they clamber up onto the roof itself. A few seconds later, they retrieve... one of those fake-rock spare-key-holders, it looks like? You guess that's a safer place than under the worn-yellow welcome mat you can see was once covered in brightly-colored pawprints. They toss it down to Tommy before hopping into his waiting arms. 

He doesn't even _stumble_ during any of this, the move apparently well-practiced enough that they both just do it automatically, without even thinking about it. _Damn_.

The first thing you notice on walking in- aside from the fact that there's not much room to stand without getting in the way, considering your size- is how… _nice_ the space looks, in comparison with the outside. Maybe he kept it that way on purpose, given the status of the neighborhood? Tommy clearly makes good use of such a tight space- things are tucked away and carefully placed for optimal maneuverability, and everything seems to have its place. 

The bin of obviously-college-era paraphernalia tucked in the back corner certainly explains _that_ particular skill. You blink for a second when you spot what seems to obviously be a picture from a frat party, Tommy giving the camera a thumbs up. Did Tommy used to be a frat brat, back in college? You suddenly recall the fact that Tommy’s _definitely_ shotgunned a few sodas before.

The sheer amount of _color_ in the space is what strikes you next. There’s little splashes of contrast from various objects- little blocks, figurines- and even the hanging lamp in the center, a series of eight bare frosted-glass bulbs in differing vintage shapes, had it’s cords in a rainbow of hues. Each wall, too, is painted a different, bright shade- somehow they don’t clash as much as compliment each other. 

The left- where the door you presume the bathroom is behind rests- is a strawberry red, the right an indigo boarding on violet, and behind you is a sunny goldenrod. The small kitchenette is tiled in vivid orange, and it looks like the walls of the little cubby-space the bunk-bed occupies are painted a bright, pear green. A brief glance at the window sills reveals they’re accented in a fiery shade of mandarin. 

Actually, you catch more color from behind the bed as you scootch to let Bubby & Dr. Coomer in behind you- equal vertical stripes of pink, yellow, and blue- oh! Pan flag colors again, cute. 

Tommy throws his key in a little wooden bowl on the desk next to the door, which you now notice seems to hold his computer monitor- an old CRT model that looks straight out of the nineties, with a matching computer tower to boot. Even stranger, it looks like he’s got a hand-me-down analogue TV set up on a cabinet nestled in the space between his bathroom door and his bedroom.

You’re thrown for a loop, for a moment, because surely he could afford better hardware on Black Mesas salary, but then you notice all three absolutely _covered_ in stickers- and both his keyboard, mouse, and TV remote are brand new. You figure he must’ve had them updated internally- he’d have to, for the analogue to even get service- so it must be more of a sentimental preference or dislike of change than a money thing.

Sunkist diligently pads over to sit bottom of the bunk bed, out of the way as Tommy walks over to dig around in one of the two bright-red drawers built into the bottom- he must’ve gotten a bunk specifically so Sunkist would have somewhere comfortable to rest- pulling out carefully-folded cardboard boxes and roll of clear packing tape as Dr. Coomer & Bubby both busy themselves with looking around in the most obviously nosy way possible.

...You don’t have much else to do, yet, either, but you’re at least more _subtle_ about it.

The computer desk to your right is brightly painted wood, and while not too cluttered it does have a couple of different little plants, cacti and succulents mostly- the obligatory mug-full-of-pens every office seams to spawn- and a pair of pliers tucked under the space between the desk itself and the drawers beneath, probably for fixing the electrical. There’s a lot of just- various, little easy to care for plants around the room, actually, that just seem to serve to liven up the place. 

Some of them look a little dry, which isn’t surprising- lucky they don’t seem to be _too_ bad after who-knows-how-long down in Black Mesa, but you should probably remind Tommy to water them, before you leave.

Looking around further, you now notice there’s a lot of just- cutesy clown and carnival and carousel themed things? It’s kind of fitting that Tommy would be into, like- clowncore themed shit, actually- he seems like the type to be a fan of an aesthetic that involves bright colors, good cheer, and fun-for-all-ages. You should go to a carnival, actually, Dr. Coomer seemed excited at the idea- and the sheer havoc Bubby would cause the rigged stands is hilarious to imagine.

Tommy finishes setting up the boxes, and stands up, looking around the room and making little motions with his fingers- almost like he’s typing in the air. He’s moving his mouth, too, almost but not quite mumbling under his breath- you can’t quite read his lips, but you assume he’s trying to figure out what exactly he needs to bring with him. You _do_ , however, catch a mumble that sounds something like ‘important personal documents’, shuffling to the left to let him pass.

A plain black filing cabinet stands out to the rest of the rooms bright colors- you hadn't quite noticed it before, since it’s tucked into the corner directly to the right of the door. Tommy digs around in it for a few seconds, pulling out various binders of paper- ones labeled ‘medical info’, another ‘orphanage and foster care’, a framed college degree- you’d pay more attention, but something shiny tucked next to the bright-yellow living chair catches your eye.

It’s a metal baseball bat, covered in various stickers. That’s- _disconcerting_. 

More so when you realize you can see another one, hidden in the space between the end of his bed and the wall. You really don’t like the implications of the fact that Tommy felt it _necessary_ to have not one, but _two_ weapons within easy access. It gives you a queasy feeling that only gets worse when you look out the window and realize the _state_ of some of the houses across the street- windows smashed and shattered, broken bottles and glass in the driveways, miscellaneous trash in the yards. 

You try to avoid the worrying train of thought nagging at you to think about all the _reasons_ he might have for keeping the sunny, striped blinds on all his windows closed so tightly. Instead you force your brain to refocus on the room around you, now registering the fact that there are clear little boxes of beyblades on display in- you guess it’s technically the ‘living room’ window sill- above the chair. You suppose he doesn’t have many other places to put things, in such a small space.

It’s probably why he has a little pile of dishes from a previous meal still sitting on the little rolling side table to the right of the chair, standing out from the rest of the room due to their fairly haphazard nature- likely some forgotten vestiges of his breakfast from the day of the Resonance Cascade, left behind in his rush out the door so as to not be late for the analysis of one of the purest samples of anomalous materials Black Mesa had ever worked on.

You really need to stop thinking about Black Mesa so much. Bad headspace.

Tommy seems to notice the dishes the same time you do, as he passes by the chair, and shifts the binders and documents in his hands to a careful stack in his left arm. He flips the spoon over his fingers and into the cup, stacking them so quickly you don’t even have time to offer to help- him already having made the few strides necessary to deposit them in the kitchen sink. Shit, you forgot how fast he was with his fingers, he could probably do some _sick_ coin tricks with that.

You make a mental note to introduce him to the Hitman games at some point. You feel like he’d appreciate the bullet time aspect.

“Uhm- sorry, i’m a little- will you, um- Dr. Coomer? Would you care to- could you please scrub those a little while i figure out what else i should- what else i need to grab- to pack? Please?”

Dr. Coomer says something along the lines of ‘of course’, but you don’t catch exactly _what_ they say, as Bubby at this point makes a loud, dramatic groan and flops into the chair next to you- the unexpected noise so close by causing you to startle, just a little. God, your jumpy. They then continue on with a petulant whine about how they're ‘so tirrrreeed’, soon followed with a ‘will you fuckers please hurrryy uppppp’, kicking their legs up over the left armrest towards the door and only narrowly avoiding kicking _you_. 

You gently swat their leg in response, and somehow manage to avoid tripping over anything as you stumble away dodge their feeble attempt to kick you _hard_ in the stomach for it. Jackass.

You’re lucky they’re so short, or they’d probably have kicked a hole in Tommy’s front door.

Dr. Coomer, on their part, reaches back with one hand- aided somewhat by the Extendo Arms, probably- and gives Bubby a little pat on the shoulder, telling them to be patient while their host packs. Tommy tries to apologize, stuttering that it’s been a while since he’s had to pack, but he’s swiftly cut off by Bubby, who makes small, halfhearted kicks in your direction every couple of words, forcing you to lean back to avoid getting hit.

“Of course i’m not talking to _you_ , Tommy, I'm talking about this slow as shit dumbass who's holding us all up!”

You really want to argue about this, because- what the fuck, you’re not even _doing_ anything in here, how the _FUCK_ would you be holding them up- but you consciously choose to take a breath through your nose and not acknowledge it. Even with how tired and stressed you are, you can still figure out that they’re just- looking for a way to complain and whine that won’t make Tommy nervous or upset, just using you as a convenient scapegoat for such purposes. 

You are torn between finding that almost sweet and really wanting to kick Bubby’s ass. You are heavily leaning towards the kicking ass part, to be honest. 

Tommy himself meanwhile shifts the stack in his hands, reorganizing it before crouching to place it with the boxes resting at the foot of his bed, looking back at Dr. Coomer for a second before shifting his gaze to the kitchen cabinets above & below the counter. He then stands up, looking through the upper cabinet for something- looks like he has quite an eclectic collection of mismatched cutesy mugs. You can spot an array of dinosaur themed utensils, too- though all he really grabs is a little handmade puppy mug, a few pieces of colorful plastic silverware, and a Dunkin' Donuts travel cup.

You assume they're his favorites for whatever reason- be it the plastic’s texture or the sentimentality of something clearly made in a public-school pottery class, all of which are carefully deposited next to the boxes. 

The kitchen itself kind of reminds you of a hotel kitchenette, actually- Tommy has a mini-fridge tucked under the counter, a microwave resting on top. It looks like he’s taken a label gun to the shelves, actually- the thick bands of green-and-orange cabinets meticulously organized. You’re not surprised to spot a set of labeled cutting boards and proper chef's knife bag- the kind you’d only ever really seen used in high-school culinary classes- tucked on the counter. You kind of want to laugh at the fact that even Tommy’s _kitchen_ would be labeled OSHA approved.

Except for maybe the bottles- some filled with colorful sand art- on the kitchen window sill, proudly displayed next to some dry, nearly-withering herb plants. There’s quite a variety, too- soda bottles from bygone decades, colorful vintage glassware, fancy perfume bottles, even some that you recognize as being once used to hold old apothecary medicines and tinctures. Shit, he must have a huge special interest in this sort of stuff- you should take him to one of the antique stores your parents like sometime.

Tommy stands up from his little staging area and looks around- he’s flitting a little, holding his hands in raptor claws and drumming his fingers on air, flapping a little with one hand as he makes a little spin in place- oh, shit, he must be getting a little overwhelmed trying to figure out what else to pack, too many ideas running too fast at once. You figure giving him a thread to work off of will help- it _usually_ does for you, when you have this problem, but what- oh! Plants.

You give a little wave with your prosthetic, catching Tommy's attention- “Hey, man, your uh- your herb plants are looking a little dry over here-” and make a vague motion to the window sill.

Tommy, on his part, immediately straightens up in attention, making a distraught sounding “Oh noo!” that makes you _hear_ a little frowny face emoticon in his voice. He quickly strides over to hover his hands over the plants, and Dr. Coomer automatically passes him the now-clean mug filled with water. Tommy waters a few of them, but pauses when he gets to the worst of the lot.

“Mr. Freeman, some of these are- um, they’re not very- they won’t do well without actual- if they don’t have proper care, would it be okay- would you mind if i took them with us? I don’t want them to die when they’ve been doing- when they’ve been such troopers for me.”

You’re not sure that your apartment is the best place for plants, given the inherent lack of natural light and the presence of a hyperactive four-year-old, but you can’t really object- none of these appear to be poisonous, and all the cacti are doing just swell with only a little sprinkle of water from the mug in Tommy’s hands. It’s kind of cute the way he pats a few of them, apologizing.

“Uh, sure, of course? Just like- find somewhere high to put them when we get there, cause otherwise Joshie will probably knock them over. He's pretty hyperactive, all things considered.”

Tommy beams in response, proceeding to make a circle around the room to either water the cacti and succulents or relocate the dry plants to the staging area- you and Dr. Coomer helping to pass him ones where you’re in the way. Tommy stops in front of his computer desk, making a face, and then passes Dr. Coomer the plants in his hands before unplugging his computer tower, keyboard, and mouse, wrapping up the cords, and carefully scooting it over to the bed. 

You assume he’s more concerned about thieves than anything, given that he doesn’t even look at the monitor- though you doubt you could take it on this trip anyways, given its size.

Tommy makes a face for a second and then goes back over to the desk as if to grab something, making a motion for the little wooden bowl where he threw the spare key, only to blink when he finds it empty. He makes a little clicking sound with his teeth- at least you assume that’s what it was, in spite of the odd inhuman tinge to the sound, like a bug chitter- and turns on his heel, instead making a beeline for the small, colorful single-drawer wooden table right next to his bed.

Which appears to have the majority of Sunkist's toys and stuffed animals tucked underneath it. God, he loves that perfect fucking dog so much. You are going to have a hell of a time with Joshie's inevitable puppy phase, aren’t you?

You hadn’t noticed before, in your initial analysis of the space, the colorful little dial clock on the wall- it looks vintage, almost, except for the fact that it’s sealed in an odd, dense glass casing with thick metal soldering in the seams- it’s bright, green-glowing numbers and dials lit from what seems like a black-light tucked just behind the rim. They’re a little symbol in the corner, too, bright magenta on a square of eye-searing neon yellow- oh. Oh fuck.

That symbol is the fucking _radioactivity trefoil_ , what the fuck- is that clock a god damn- _radium_ _dial_? You are suddenly deeply concerned by the presence of the vintage glassware in Tommy's kitchen windowsill, immediately thinking of the dangers of uranium glass while memories of your fervent readings of radium girls and other horrors flashing through your brain to the tune of a Geiger counter clicking on repeat. 

Sunkist perks up in the corner of your vision, wagging their tail and tilting their head, and you wave them off, breathing through your nose. It’s fine, you're _fine_ , everything is _okay_.

  
  


You are going to have a fucking talk about the safety of uranium glass with Tommy later though, he is NOT bringing that thing anywhere near your soon-to-be-shared apartment, _Jesus_ _Christ_.

You consciously wrench your eyes away from the _radiological hazard_ sitting on your friends office wall to instead pay attention to whatever he’s doing at his bedside table- which you now notice is covered in a bunch of- romance novels? Oh, right, didn’t he mention he was looking forward to some soap opera before- what was it, ‘Interest in romance’? ‘Invitation to love’? _Something_ like that. 

Other than that it’s mostly stim toys, 3D puzzles, and those- kinetic office things. You don’t think you’ve actually ever seen one of those little bubble mazes outside of a gift shop before? Neat.

Tommy turns on a small light resting on the corner of the desk closest to the bed, its shade a direct match for his curtains. The dim light highlights the brass of a small alarm clock, bouncing off a photo frame tucked in the back corner against the wall- which you now notice has a cute little photo collage of the science team on the job, small notes from Dr. Coomer and Bubby that look more like the writings of a pair of proud grandparents than work colleagues. 

‘We love our little Tommy’, huh? Softies.

Tommy pauses for a moment, hand hovering above the table, then grabs the frame, gently placing it on the floor along with a few of the stim toys before opening the drawer, searching through it for something. From where you’re standing you can see it’s full of more of the same, with the addition of a few chewy necklaces still sealed in their plastic packaging- he grabs a few of these too, dropping them on the pile- before apparently finding what he was looking for, pulling it out with almost a flourish.

It’s a little backup key-ring, made of hard, brightly colored plastic- it looks similar to the polymer used on your HEV suit, actually, and you wonder if he got it custom from Black Mesa.

You didn’t notice before, but there’s a little carousel-themed mirror above the table, almost hidden in the shade of the wall- photo’s and little notes tucked into its sides. 

It’s completely shattered.

Looking at it makes you feel unsettled, an odd, eerie shine in the cracks you can’t quite focus on- you suddenly recall seeing something similar at the door to the Anomalous Materials Lab on the day of the Resonance Cascade, that resulted in you being in the presence of a skewed Black Mesa with invisible puppet strings tying your hands. You begin to feel sick, and when you blink hard and turn away your face, your vision flashes a glowing checker of searing magenta and void-like black, for a moment.

You decide you don’t like mirrors, and consciously avoid looking over to that part of the room as much as possible. Sunkist, though staying in place, sits up, alert and looking in your direction for any further signs of distress on your part. Good dog.

Tommy makes a concerned face for a moment, when he passes you on his way to the bathroom, but you wave him off with a smile that might be a little too much of a grimace, hoping he puts it down to how tired you are. The bathroom isn’t much- a corner shower that seems a bit too small to be comfortable, a compact toilet, a sink and medicine-cabinet mirror that you avoid looking at, instead focusing on Tommy from the corner of your eye as he reaches below the sink to pull out a cloth-mesh bag- the kind you might use to carry sunblock to the beach.

He makes quick work of packing- first throwing a hairbrush and two small bottles in the bottom of the bag, which you assume to be shampoo and conditioner- quickly followed by an orange soap with a yellow sun you recognize as a Lush bar, and a lotion from Bath & Body Works you think says something like ‘Love & Sunshine’. When he grabs his toothbrush and toothpaste, you notice it’s the strawberry kind you’d usually buy for kids- you figure he must have the same problem with the burn of the mint and the feel of the fluoride you used to. 

Okay, still do. Fuck that, you’ll just use the antiseptic mouthwash to brush, _no thank you_. At least that shit numbs your gums so you can scrub without it hurting. God you hate toothpaste.

You don’t miss how he tries to furtively throw in a makeup pallet, strawberry bath bomb, and cutesy perfume bottle in the bag without you noticing, but you choose not to comment- after being through an apocalypse and spending a few days covered in who-knows-what, wanting to take some bath-bombs and your favorite perfume with you is fucking valid, okay? It’s been a traumatizing week, you’re all very tired- Tommy can have a little comfort, as a treat. 

...You are totally stealing some of that bath-bomb, though. It’s your apartment, you're pretty sure that nets you bath bomb privileges.

Tommy places the bag next to the growing pile of things-to-be-packed, pausing for a moment in apparent thought, before reaching over to dig around in the same drawer he got the boxes and tape from, looking for something- which turns out to be a label gun. He proceeds to label one box in pink with ‘Personal’, another ‘Heavy/Fragile’ in red, and the last a bright yellow ‘Sunkist’- immediately placing that one to the side next to Sunkist's toy’s and getting to work scooting the various items on the floor to rest next to the respective boxes he wants them to go in.

The computer tower, keyboard, and mouse all immediately go into the box labeled for heavy items, swiftly followed by his puppy mug and the colorful plastic utensils within, the Dunkin' Donut's travel cup, and a carefully-arranged stack of the dryer-looking plants. He pauses for another moment and then places the bathroom bag inside as well- likely due to the fragile nature of the perfume bottles, bath bomb, and makeup.

“Uhm- Dr. Coomer? Sorry to- I don’t mean to- may i impose on you to um- to take the box out- to take it to the car, please? It’s rather heavy, with everything, and i’m worried- i don’t want anything to break in it.”

Dr. Coomer doesn’t even get a reply in before Bubby is jumping up out of the chair they’ve been resting in- once again startling you with their sudden movement- with a resounding near-shout of “FUCKING _FINALLY_ LETS GOOOO!!”, soon followed by them running out the door before Tommy can even get a word-in-edgewise to tell them to wait. Great help Bubby, wonderful job helping carry boxes. God, they’re already honking the horn too. 

Dr. Coomer just laughs good-naturedly, mumbles an ‘onwards and upwards’- they don’t show it much, but you think the exhaustion is finally starting to set in for them too, even with all their cybernetic upgrades. They’ve probably been running on empty for a while, actually- you’re not sure how long those HEV Suit chargers last them, but your HEV Suit completely ran out of juice _hours_ ago. 

You’re lucky Black Mesa was so adamant about everyone learning to pilot the damn thing unpowered, it’s heavy as shit. Speaking of which-

“Tommy, dude- let me get the next heaviest box, man, I've still got the HEV suit to help me, and i can’t imagine that tiny car combined with how you’ve been stooping is great on your back.” 

Tommy pauses for a second, as if he wants to object or try to argue- but is stopped half way through by a tired yawn. You snort, and he makes a sheepish face, instead redirecting you to grab some of Sunkist’s food from the far cabinet while he packs the rest of their things for you to take, since the cans tend to be heavier than anything else. You oblige, and you can’t help but notice that he buys the really _expensive_ , high quality food- the treats and bones you grab are likewise. 

Tommy, puts a small toy bin with various toys into the box first thing, you just slot the cardboard sleeve of cans into the space next to it as tightly as you can while he retrieves the rest- a cutesy dog bowl that was sitting on the rolling table by the chair, their service vest, a collar & leash. Sunkist perks up at this, sitting up and wagging their tail happily, and he makes a grabbing motion at them and says something you think might be ‘Meka’- they hop off the bed in response and carefully pick up a stuffed rabbit from the bed, taking it over and carefully placing it in the top of the box themselves. 

It’s wearing a little, frilly dress and hat, and in spite of missing one arm appears incredibly well-cared for, for a dog toy. You highly doubt the arm is even the result of rough play, given the little nuzzle Sunkist gives the toy before Tommy carefully closes up the box. You give Sunkist a little wave- unsure if you’re allowed to pat them or not given the service dog thing- before picking up the box, steadying with your right but largely favoring your left, still-flesh hand.

Fuck, you’re going to take a _while_ to get used to this prosthetic, aren’t you. Thinking about it makes a bolt of phantom pain travel down your arm, and you flex your new hand in response, hoping Tommy won’t notice and be worried- lucky for you he seems preoccupied with doing a final check-up of the room- though Sunkist _does_ nose your leg insistently. You wave them off, and they give your prosthetic a little lick- somehow, that helps more than anything else.

Tommy’s making a face- you’re not sure why, at first, but following his gaze you realize he keeps looking a pile of plushies on his bed- aw, shit, is he seriously considering leaving his fucking stuffed animals behind just to be convenient? Oh man, _fuck that_ , it’s been a week of hell, dude you are taking your fucking plushies. Okay Gordon how do you subtly indicate to your anxious friend it’s totally cool and he should go ahead and take his stuffed animal comfort items.

“Uhh- Tommy, man, don’t forget to like- um, bring your stuffed animals and things. ‘s been a long week and shit, or whatever. Gordon tired, not good speak word.”

Nailed it. Master of subtly. You are a graduate of the MIT school of dipshitery in social situations. _Please_ shut the the fuck.

Lucky for you that seems to immediately break whatever dam was holding Tommy back, because he immediately makes a beeline for three in the pile in particular, saying what you can only assume is their names as he gently plucks them off the bed and places them with the pile still to be packed in the last box, patting each on the head as he does so before moving onto the next. The first is a little green-and-orange looking creature of some sort, apparently called ‘tantrum’- it kind of reminds you of where the wild things are. The next is a soft, little blue duck that he grins at when he squeaks it and you stifle a giggle at the incredibly creative name of ‘duckie’.   
  
The last is ‘flutterbee’, a little purple butterfly with multi colored, textured wings and a mirror on it’s stomach- the sort of thing you’d expect to come with something like that- quilted cloth activity mat, the one you still have tucked in your closet. The same one that you scoured ebay listings for _weeks_ looking for one in good, clean condition, because you wanted to buy a duplicate of it for Joshie and you still couldn’t part with yours, even after 20 odd-years. God, human sentimentality sure is something, huh. 

Though Tommy isn’t really _human_ , per say. Maybe sentimentality is just the nature of sapience itself, or anything else capable of self-awareness and compassion. 

  
  


Okay Gordon stop thinking about existentialism or you’re going to burst into tears about the Voyager record. Again.

Oh, actually, Tommy’s got another one- you didn’t see it at first, since it was tucked up at his pillow- but it’s a little bunny doll made of patchwork, patterned terry cloth, themed after a clown. It’s- absurdly cute, and you can’t stop the grin that breaks out on your face when Tommy gives a soft ‘Hi Funfetti!’ in just. The most incredibly adorable tone of utter joy, and nuzzles it’s little face before gently putting it down with a grin and a little happy hand flap.

Tommy opens the bedside drawer nearest to you and grabs a couple sets of carefully-folded outfits- oh, he is _definitely_ going to reorganize your apartment when he realizes you don’t actually know where anything is and just make it _look_ neat, isn’t he. You also notice a couple of scrapbooks tucked to one side, which he digs through a little before pulling out one in particular- you only barely catch sight of before it’s tucked under the clothes in his arms as quickly as possible, apparently not intending for anyone to see it.

It’s a little book covered in quilt patchwork that looks like it’s been embroidered on the front with yellow and cyan thread, and your mouth goes dry when you realize what it said-

  
  


‘‘tommy and benrey bffs”, surrounded by little hand-embroidered stars and hearts. 

  
  


You turn your head away as quickly as possible, pretending not to have seen it and trying to control your breathing, because you have just now realized that- as much as you have valid reason to hate Benrey, as much as they turned out to be some sort of evil murderous alien eldritch horror- they were still Tommy’s friend, once, and they’re dead now, and even if Tommy feels the same way as you about it he still. Lost his friend, just earlier today. _Fuck_. 

You suddenly have the realization that Benrey, who was always taking photos, who apparently was into scrapbooking- was probably the one who made all those little collages Tommy has. 

  
  


You make the conscious decision not to think about this subject for as long as possible, instead trying to focus on how close to being finished Tommy is with packing that last box. Sunkist stares at you silently from the other side of the room.

The work photo collage is placed on top of the stack of clothes (which you steadfastly ignore hides a scrapbook beneath), followed by the binders and important documents. The stim toys are artfully arranged to give the most space, like a game of tetris, and the backup keyring is placed in the center between his three stuffed animals- funfetti is gently tucked in on top with a little smooch and a pat of the head. 

You breathe a sigh of relief as Tommy stands up with the now closed box, Sunkist padding behind you both as the lights are flicked off and the door locked behind you with the spare key.

* * *

Tommy apologizes as you walk to the already-started car, apparently feeling sheepish since he knows he has a tendency to over-pack on trips and things- you wave it off, tell him it’s fine, you just want him to be comfortable- though honestly, for how much shit _you_ tend to normally bring on overnight trips _alone_ , three boxes for everything is pretty damn good. 

God, he is going to judge you for your packing habits so hard. You really hope you cleaned up before you went into work, or at least John did while you were gone.

Bubby is complaining about how long you took- ‘not you, Tommy, Gordons slow fucking ass’- when you get to the car- of _course_ they are- but you just roll your eyes and flick the back of their headrest, barely avoiding the resulting claw at you by scooting along the back of the car to take your seat behind Dr. Coomer. You place the box at your feet, though you have to lean as far back as possible to avoid the continuing- though half-hearted- attacks from them.

Sunkist pads into the car next to you, giving your cheek a little nuzzle with their nose- you assume checking in on you, since you kept setting off their service dog senses back in the house. Sorry, doggy, Gordon Nervous. Gordon Anxiousman. Gordon Stop Talking In Third Personman. Personman, personman, hit on the head with a frying pan~. God you are so fucking tired.

Bubby _finally_ stops their assault when Tommy gets in the car, similarly placing his box at his feet, and Dr. Coomer reminds them to put on their seat-belt before starting the car. Bubby huffs and does so- grumbling all the while, because surely this is their brand now- and crosses their arms, leaning to the side. For some reason, though, they look stiffer than normal- which you soon realize is because they have the third box tucked behind their legs, almost protectively. 

You breathe a sigh of relief and lean your head back in your seat as you all finally, _finally_ drive off, leaving that dead-end, decaying neighborhood behind. God those places give you the creeps. Too much like a post apocalypse setting, too quiet with too much obvious abandonment. Though, technically, you guess it might really _be_ the post apocalypse, after Black Mesa. Does it count if you managed to put a stop to it, if it was in another reality? You’re not entirely sure.

You think you should get an honorary pass. Shit was fucked man. Even with a HEV Suit.

Shit, right, the fucking- HEV Suit. God damn it.

“Hey, uh- guys? Can you all like, stick around after we drop off Tommy’s stuff? I gotta get this fucking- HEV Suit off, and I _definitely_ can’t do that with one hand and one, like- barely-getting-used-to-this-at-best _prosthetic_ one. So like. Help please? Help for Gordon?”

You’re met with a chorus of replies you don’t have the energy to attempt to actually parce into actual understandable language at the moment, though from the tone alone you can tell Dr. Coomer is being helpful, Tommy unsure if he'd be able to, and Bubby a mix of antagonistic and disdaining that probably means they actually know a little bit about how to get out of it without a HEV Suit Station and is being a dick about it. 

You mumble a thanks and then promptly veg out in the back seat for the rest of the trip, as Tommy rambles about nearby points of interest, Dr. Coomer info dumps entire Wikipedia articles verbatim in response, Bubby bitches from their seat, and Sunkist lays their head on your lap. You only really perk up when you start recognizing landmarks, just glad to finally see something familiar after days of nonsense and terror. 

Dr. Coomer pulls the car into your apartment complex, and bubby predictably starts saying something about it ‘looking like a shithole’ or some bullshit, Tommy mumbling something about the structural integrity and architecture- which sets off Dr. Coomer in another infodump, this time on architectural styles- but you almost want to fucking cry, because after everything else?

God, you’re finally fucking _home_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warnings:  
> -Brief fantasy of meteors  
> -Suburban Decay - mentions of foreclosure/eviction, pawn shops, liquor stores  
> -Implications of dangerous living situations & at-ready weapons  
> -Mentions of radium dials/girls & fear of radiation poisoning  
> -Broken mirrors, Unreality(?)
> 
> Bonus Tags: tommys neighborhood is Not Nice, based on real neighborhoods near me, frat brat tommy real, its like 6 am ive been up all night so i might be fucking up these tags, gordon only has 2 modes its panic and bi, gordon narrowly avoiding panic attacks while on -56 emotional battery: the fic
> 
> This took me over 2 weeks to slog thru this chapter bc my brain is like sandpaper rn and its just 8000+ words of fucking- tommy character analysis via room description and gordon narrowly avoiding having a full blown panic attack every couple of minutes while hes running on -54% socioemotional battery. PLEASE help me gain control of my life,, 
> 
> On the plus side I finished my Sweet Voice Translation & Act-by-act Analysis (https://docs.google.com/document/d/1EXIF_k3kgxn21wmgk_AB3VL-nG_QWYB-N-bt5dYX-Ig/edit?usp=sharing) and Simplified HEV Suit Ref and Lore (https://nbenrey-real.tumblr.com/post/624772200879341568/bc-the-hev-suit-is-such-a-pain-to-draw-and-looks), both of which are free for use! please link me tho i love seeing your content!!!!
> 
> bc ik ppl will ask: the products tommy has are ‘Good Day Sunshine’ & ‘Strawberries And Cream‘ from lush, and ‘Love & Sunshine’ from B&B. yes i am projecting my love of expensive soap, no i will not stop. i hope one day i will b able to afford a giant bin of lush bathbombs ;^;
> 
> Tantrum, Duckie, and Flutterbee are all real stuffed animals that I personally have and love! As is Meka, who is based on my actual rabbit- though unfortunately i haven’t been able to locate her dress in the garage, so she’s just in her little pajamas and sans an arm eternally :/  
> The blanket Gordon mentions is similarly an Actual Real Item i have- a playskool brand activity quilt called something like ‘fold ‘n go’, which i still have tucked away somewhere in my house
> 
> Funfetti meanwhile is a custom design combining aspects of various potential Favorite Stuffies i had been looking through, bc none of them quite fit and tommy deserves only the best. they are also somewhat inspired by Bohug of mysillycomics, because the love they have for that bear is a big mood for me given my deep love and sentimentality for my plushies. they r just,, babey,,,
> 
> My blog, nbenrey-real.tumblr.com , contains everything that doesn’t quite fit my ao3 presence, like art references for my versions of the cast, the aforementioned HEV suit design & Sweet Voice Translations, or pictures of the irl counterparts to tommy’s stuffed animals and funfetti’s design sketch! please feel free to drop by :3


	3. In Situ

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone immediately stretches upon exiting the car, and you have to shake your prosthesis a little to catch feeling in it again. You, Dr. Coomer, and Tommy all take your respective boxes while Bubby closes the top and messes with something in their hotwiring job so no one else can steal it while you’re all gone, and Sunkist helpfully pops the trunk with a deft paw.
> 
> Dr. Coomer is the one to take the initiative on the presents front, choosing to carry as much as they can reasonably balance and still get up the stairs. You, yourself, insist on taking the majority of the rest, citing the HEV suit excuse again when Tommy questions it- you’d feel bad about lying like this, but he just looks so tired when he picks up the box he packed for Sunkist that you can’t help it.
> 
> You drop off Tommys stuff near the couch, for now, and let Tommy get to sorting it out how he needs, instead making a beeline for the kitchen to grab a soda from the cupboard and pass it off to Bubby, hoping it’ll help them calm down before they burn a hole in something. Bubby grumbles something incomprehensible but sounding enough like a thanks that you smile at them anyways.
> 
> Next is the hard part.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warnings & Bonus Tags in end notes.

Everyone immediately stretches upon exiting the car, and you have to shake your prosthesis a little to catch feeling in it again. You, Dr. Coomer, and Tommy all take your respective boxes while Bubby closes the top and messes with something in their hotwiring job so no one  _ else _ can steal it while you’re all gone, and Sunkist helpfully pops the trunk with a deft paw. 

You’d forgotten about the presents, actually, shit- you don’t think any of you have the energy to make more than one trip, and from the others expressions you’re pretty sure they agree.

Dr. Coomer is the one to take the initiative on the presents front, choosing to carry as much as they can reasonably balance and still get up the stairs. You, yourself, insist on taking the majority of the rest, citing the HEV suit excuse again when Tommy questions it- you’d feel bad about lying like this, but he just looks so  _ tired _ when he picks up the box he packed for Sunkist that you can’t help it. 

Sunkist themself helps take the bags you’d been trying to get hooked over your right arm, apparently having clued into the fact you’re not exactly confident with your prosthesis. Good doggy. You all take one look at the elevator and collectively wince, and you instantly redirect the group to make their way up the apartment complex steps, Sunkist dutifully trotting behind Tommy and gently nosing his leg whenever he pauses for too long. 

You’re almost annoyed with Bubby at first, because all they’ve done is grumpily cross their arms and make mumbling noises about how shitty your apartment complex is rather than help with any of the fucking bags, but. Your brain is finally working a little better after that short nap in the car on the way here, and you noticed after the first few steps into the complex that they were kind of agitated- they kept startling at ambient noise of the complex, scuffing their shoes where little fires pop up after they’d flinch.

They’re not used to this- they spent the majority of life cooped up in Black Mesa, so this must be overwhelming as fuck. They’re probably just trying to avoid burning any of Tommy’s stuff and just don’t want to say so directly. You don’t point it out, but you make a note to let Bubby borrow some earplugs, poor guy.

You finally, finally see your apartment door, and realize there's a good way to give Bubby a little confidence boost right there- they’re the only one with hands free, and you need your spare key.

“Alright, this is it. Sorry to bother you man, but could you hop up to that vent up there, Bubby? We keep my spare key tucked in the side of the grate.” 

Bubby grumbles a little as they do so, and when you get a hold of the key it’s  _ hot _ , like it’s been left in the sun- you have to consciously stop yourself from shaking the burn out of your hand, instead giving Bubby a  _ Thank You _ and a  _ Good Job!  _ In spite of the preschool-voice that leaks into the praise, Bubby still beams with it, so you think it's well worth the pain.

You drop off Tommys stuff near the couch, for now, and let Tommy get to sorting it out how he needs, instead making a beeline for the kitchen to run your hand under cold water. You grab a soda from the cupboard while you’re there and pass it off to Bubby, hoping it’ll help them calm down before they burn a hole in something. Bubby grumbles something incomprehensible but sounding enough like a thanks that you smile at them anyways.

Next is the hard part. 

You dig through the little semi-hidden utility closet for the toolbox you keep for emergencies- choosing to pull out your fire extinguisher and place it next to the front door as well, just in case, and start toward the bathroom. You wave down Dr. Coomer and rub your face a little, suddenly much more tired than you thought you were. 

“Doctor Coomer? Uh, that HEV suit thing i asked about- do you think you could help? You’re, like, the strongest one here, so.”

Dr. Coomer agrees in spite of how tired they look, thankfully- and Bubby, surprisingly, interrupts you to offer help- though they phrase it more of something like “oh don’t forget about me motherfuckers, none of you people know jack shit about fuck and i am NOT dealing with Gordon’s whiny ass if he breaks a bone.” 

In spite of that disconcerting phrasing, the removal sequence isn’t nearly as intimidating with them both helping- Bubby pointing out the various emergency latches they know of and Dr. Coomer snapping parts that would normally be removed in a HEV station with ease, despite the absurdly durable proprietary polymer-ceramic-carbon fiber composite bullshit Black Mesa uses.

All-in-all, it’s surprisingly painless- bar the injectors, the skin around which is  _ still _ incredibly tender, even after whatever Mr. Coolatta did that healed your other cuts and scrapes. 

Bubby steps forward to help remove the IV needles, uncharacteristically gentle and obviously trying to make it as painless and quick as possible- in spite of their own apparent discomfort with the lines and tubes connected to the remains of the outer hardsuit. You put on a reassuring- if somewhat pained- smile and give them two thumbs up, though they just roll their eyes.

Finally managing to get down to the softsuit underneath it all, free of the constraints of the last few days, is just- such a fucking  _relief_ , and you can’t help but stretch luxuriously. God, you had no idea how much you missed being able to strain your shoulders all the way back before now. You roll your wrist and stretch your shoulders a little as you turn back to them both.

“Oh my god this is _ so much _ better, guys, you have no idea how glad i am to be out of that damned thing, jesus christ. Thank you so,  _ so _ fucking much.”

Bubby just grumbles something about you being too dumb to get out of the suit yourself, but you elect to ignore it- they look too exhausted for you expect any social skills out of them, anyways. Dr. Coomer, meanwhile, gives you a pat on the back that nearly knocks you to the floor, and says that if you need anything else snapped into pieces they’re always available. It’s only mildly threatening.

“Yeah, alright. Hey, listen- I’m gonna grab a shower real quick, okay? I know Mr. Coolatta did like- some sort of weird, eldritch power cleanup, but I’m like. Fucking exhausted and i want a bath, man. Gordon is tired, Gordon wants warm water and nice soap.”

Tommy makes an appearance, at that point, knocking lightly on the doorframe and asking if it’s alright if he drops off his bathroom stuff. Dr. Coomer and Bubby slip past him as you wave him in, directing him to go ahead and take the drawer you usually use to hoard stolen hotel soaps to let guests use or give to any of the homeless people you know need some.

“Hey, actually, it’s like- late as shit right now, and we’re all clearly exhausted. You guys wanna go ahead and stay for a while? You can like, watch tv or whatever and after I’m out I’ll see if I can’t scrounge you guys up some dinner from whatever food hasn’t spoiled on me.”

Bubby just shrugs and looks to Dr. Coomer, who just smiles- but Tommy tilts his head and makes a face.

“Uh- not that i don't- I’m sure we’d love whatever you make, Mr. Freeman, but- we already had, um- pizza, and- and wings and stuff, at the party- plus popcorn at the movies? I’m- you don’t have to feed us, i don’t think?”

“Dude, we went through several days worth of extreme exercise and stress living on nothing but soda. You guys need like, actually nutritionally good food for once- some Chuck E Cheese salad bar and veggie trays are  _ not _ gonna cut it. Also because I  _ know _ none of you did at the party, maybe drink some fucking  _ water _ ?”

You can't help the urge to turn on the tap and gesture to the stream as if to emphasize your point. Tommy makes a sheepish smile, blocks his view with a hand, and turns on his heel. Bubby, predictably, just flips you off before following after, and Dr. Coomer just- stays, for a moment, looking between you and the sink. Then they let out a “Hello Gordon!” followed immediately by a “Goodbye Gordon!” before leaving as fast as possible.

God damn it guys. 

These people you’ve become attached to are going to make your life infinitely harder, aren’t they. At least now you can finally,  _ finally _ shower.

_

Being clean and able to relax at the party had been nice and all, buy  _ god _ it was so nice to finally be able to wash your hair out with actual  _ water _ . 

Between the tackiness of mixed human and alien gore, the sticky feeling of dried corn syrup from the Poweraid, and  _ whatever _ oily crap was in the sewage-water of Black Mesa it had just- felt so  _ bad _ , you think the only thing that kept you from having a meltdown from the texture alone was a mix of sheer terror and probable Morphine overuse.

You missed hot water so fucking much. You know you should probably turn it down before it scalds you, but the feeling of tension leaving your shoulders is so  _ nice _ . You’ve never been happier that John bought you that stupid ‘anti anxiety’ lavender soap- sure, the ‘lavender for everything!’ trend has been annoying, but damn if it didn’t _ work _ for you.

You don’t bother with trying to deal with your arm situation until the last possible minute, not wanting to even think about it- last time you had seen the skin itself, it'd been a mess of inflamed, bloody tissue, with cords of metal from your gun hand fusing up the meat of your arm like the roots of a tree. 

Now it was a clean even cut, with only faint vine-like scars where the veins of- what you can only assume was some sort of biotech or something- once were. It felt- bizarre, unsettling, really- like that fake, synthetic- what was it Mr. Coolatta had called it? Realskin? You’re not sure how to feel about the fact that the nails on this thing turn into little- claws, almost, when you tense. 

Cleaning it, at least, is somewhat familiar- even if it takes some fumbling to disconnect the prosthesis itself, dealing with Joshua’s laryngectomy stoma is essentially the same idea. It makes you laugh a little, actually, to think that Joshua will probably react by saying you match now- thinking of it as just joining in on the nightly cleaning routine makes you feel just a little bit lighter. 

You opt to put in the effort to dig around in the bathroom linen closet for the especially plushy towel you keep for bad brain days, wrapping it around yourself and rubbing your face against the material to relish how soft it is in comparison to the discarded remains of the HEV suit. You’d be tempted to kick them if you weren’t so sleepy.

A flood of steam that follows you a little as you pad down the hall to your room, and the first thing you do is go to grab your spare pair of glasses so you can finally see properly. God, these ones are cracked as shit, you don’t know if you can even get them fixed- you’re kind of surprised the frames didn’t break. You guess you owe it to the engineering for the fact that your hearing aid isn’t damaged from everything either, and finally getting to take a look at it- it’s barely even scruffed.

Black Mesa proprietary polymers, huh? If only they put this much effort into _ literally anything else about their research _ .

You really hope Chell’s going to have an easier time working over at Aperture Science than you did with this. Maybe all those rumors about Cave Johnson were unsubstantiated.

You opt for comfort rather than appearance- an old, worn M.I.T hoodie and the pair of dumb lolcat sweatpants John cursed you with because they were too soft for you to resist. You barely remember to grab your phone from where it’s still plugged into the wall sitting on the bedside table, actually, suddenly remembering you need to call him, but- the thought of trying to check through your messages right now makes your exhaustion hit you like a ton of bricks.

You are so, so tired. Check messages later. Food for friends now.

When you reach the junction of the hallway between kitchen and living room, you’re surprised by how quiet it is- when you peak past the corner to see what the science team is doing in your living room, you find that the room is still dark, barely lit by the the light of the small standing lamp you have to the right of the armchair and the television, which is playing some some episode of ‘How It's Made’.

It seems Tommy’s already gotten to organizing his things, seeing as he’s scooted them against the wall where your computer desk, snack fridge, and the crash bed John uses when he babysits rests. Tommy himself is curled up, legs folded up to his chest, on the rightmost part of the couch- as far as he can press into the arm without falling off. Sunkist leans heavily into his left side, occasionally nuzzling him as he pets them and makes petting little tapping stims on the armrest. 

Dr. Coomer is smiling happily and occasionally patting Bubby's side, Bubby draped across his lap with their legs hanging off the side of the left side of the couch, arms crossed- though apparently relaxed and enjoying themselves as they watch TV. You think this is the most relaxed you’d ever seen them, actually. They look. Really happy, honestly- you’re glad.

You are suddenly struck by the oddest feeling of just, floating almost, by the sheer surrealism of how absurdly fucking  _ domestic _ this scene is. You all really did make it out of Black Mesa relatively unscathed. Your team- your little family, even, at this point- is all sitting on your couch at who-knows-what-time watching fucking- How It’s Made on your shitty televsion. God.

The shower had helped, sure, but its this that really makes it hit for you that, fuck, things are finally,  _ finally  _ over- days of adrenaline and terror and burning fucking rage seeping into pure relief all at once. You kind of want to cry- you probably already are, already, to be honest- you try to stifle the little hiccup that bursts out of you, albeit unsuccessfully.

Sunkist, of course, immediately perks up at the noise, hopping off of Tommy’s lap to come lick at your face with obvious affection and reassurance, making you let out a little wet laugh. What a good, good dog. Tommy takes a second to process what's going on, blinking, before sitting up a little straighter and asking you what’s wrong, obviously concerned- it takes you a second of wet laughing as Sunkist licks your face to be able to reply, waving him off with one hand in the meantime.

“I’m- I’m more than okay, Tommy, I’m just- I’m just so fucking  _ happy _ to be  _ home _ with everyone, everything is finally fucking  _ over _ , god-”

You slump to the floor and hug Sunkist to your chest, burying your face in their fur- you really cannot stop crying, can you? Tommy, sweet man that he is, gets up to come sit nearby, leaning on you supportively and rubbing your back. Bubby mumbles something about you being a bitch-baby, but when you turn your head to look up at him you can see they’ve wiggled around onto their belly to watch you, chin in their hands.

When Dr. Coomer looks over, their face is the same almost-empty-sort-of-cheerful as always- buy they’re looking at you with clearer eyes than ever. Still, they let out a little “Hello Gordon!” when they catch your gaze, and you can’t help but laugh a little at the familiarity of the phrase- though they continue to speak, all eyes on them, everyone goes quiet.

“It’s true, Dr. Freeman, you finally did it! you survived the resonance cascade, brought us all to hell and back, alive! You made it to the ultimate birthday bash at the end of the world! And now- well…”   
  


Dr. Coomer pauses a moment, uncharacteristically quiet and subdued.

“To… to be honest, Gordon,  I had thought that after everything you might perhaps simply... move on with your life. That this is where you get off, and we say our adieu-  _ acta est fabula plaudite _ , as the romans would say-”

“But it seems like this isn't quite the end of our time together, is it now? We’ve left the game, after all- onwards and upwards, hmm? There’s already so much that’s changing! You’re taking us with you, letting us see the world!  I'm... getting a little ahead of myself, surely, but-”

“You changed our lives, Gordon. I'd like to think it was for the better. Even if we go our separate ways- I know we'll never forget you. I hope you won't forget us.”

You can’t help but burst into a fit of bubbly, sobbing,  _ wheezing _ laughter, grinning widely and burying your face deeper into Sunkist’s fur as you try to gain enough composure to speak again.

“Of- of fucking course i could never forget you guys, fuck- you guys got me through the goddamned apocalypse and gave me one of the top ten most stressful experiences of my fucking life. I'm never- I’m never going to be able to think about soda again without thinking about how much you all love it. God.”

The ‘and how much i love you’, though unspoken, is obvious to everyone.

Bubby stops you from continuing further rambling, interrupting to make a grumbling noise and complain about how long you’re all gonna do this “dumb crying and heartwarming speech bullshit, I’m  _ hungry _ Gordon”- but even you can tell their voice is a little wet, though no one chooses to point out when it cracks slightly as they speak. 

Dr. Coomer laughs good heartily in response, and it spreads to Tommy, soon to you as well. You are patently exhausted down to your bones, but you grin anyways and get up- helped a little by a push from Sunkist- and stretch, making your way to the kitchen just across the hall.

“Okay, okay, jeez Bubby- I’ll see if I can't scrounge up some  _ actual dinner _ for you freeloaders.”

Tommy gently gives you a side-hug with one arm before he makes his way back to his place on the couch, though this time he sits with his arms draped over the back, watching you as Sunkist follows you into the kitchen- occasionally standing behind your knees for support when you yawn. You gently pat their head and whisper about what a good dog they are as you make your way to look through the cupboard.

There’s not much other than bread and some old pasta- you hadn’t had a chance to restock your dried goods with all the HEV training work, and it showed. You take the risk to open the fridge in spit of your concerns of rot- only to find that it’s… surprisingly clean? Nothing even  _ looks _ spoiled, surprisingly- hell, it looks like there might even be  _ new  _ food in this thing.

You can’t help but wonder as to why- had John maybe been using your  apartment for some reason- shit, right, you still need to call him, god damn it- 

The sudden, unexpected sound of the front door being unlocked startles you out of your thoughts, your head whipping around to see the science team turning their heads in questioning at you. You, yourself, rush out of the kitchen to see who in the hell it is, assuming maybe your landlord is still here and is looking for pets-

Only to come face to face with one John Freeman, laden down with plastic bags full of what smells like chinese food takeout, phone smooshed into the meat of his cheek as he holds it to the crook of his shoulder without using any of his hands- still  still talking as he shoes the door closed behind him, no one in the room having processed enough yet to interrupt-

“I don't  _ care _ if it's  _ ‘only’ _ been forty-four hours, Goldenrod should've  _ called _ by now, he  _ always  _ makes sure to check on Jellybean, you know how he is, Tibia! Not to mention all the conflicting reports- and frankly i do  _ NOT  _ trust that damned compa-”

He looks up at that moment, and you’re still too stunned by seeing him after everything that you don't process to try to even sign anything. The cellphone clatters to the ground, forgotten, as John suddenly registers the presence of three other people in his missing brother’s apartment, chinese food quickly and unceremoniously dropped to the floor as he rushes forward to nearly tackle you into a hug with a cry of your name.

You never realized how much you could miss getting absolutely barreled over by your older siblings dumb fucking tackle-hugs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warnings:  
> -fire setting due to pyrokinesis  
> -brief mention of injectors/iv needles  
> -brief mentions of canonical blood, gore, morphine  
> -brief description of body horror relating to gun hand  
> -brief mention of meltdowns re: bad textures  
> -brief mention of laryngectomees & stomas  
> -character has a relieved crying fit after a long few days of traumatic events  
> -brief mention of possibility of food rotting
> 
> Bonus Tags: no beta we die like were anxious about social interaction and critique, how its made is a plot point, gordon gets hugs, john freeman saver of humens, sunkist best dog REAL
> 
> Hi gang! I’m sorry this took so long, but uh. There's been a lot happening, which I'll get into after the fun special interest stuff. So:
> 
> The phrase Dr. Coomer uses that inspired this fics title & summary blurb, ‘Acta Est Fabula Plaudite’ translates to ‘the play is finished, applaud’ in latin :3c. 
> 
> On my tumblr, nbenrey-real, I've recently completed the design reference for Gordons semi-cybernetic prosthetic arm , and no I could not resist the pawbs. I'm so sorry to everyone who's not a furry but perish.  
> I’m still working on the rest of the cast and will probably notice and fix a bunch of mistakes on these, but I've got the refs for my Gordon, Tommy, and Benrey good enough to where I'm willing to post them!  
> I’ve also pretty much got the Watsonian timeline sorted out for self reference purposes, as well as a bunch of things for expansion on how G-Man’s species factors into things, fun glitch stuff, and a shitton of absurdly detailed passport lore? So I might post that at some point!
> 
> As for why this took so long, uh. whoo boy. I apologize ahead of time for this uh, wall of explanation text. PLEASE feel free to skip this if you’re just here for fun stuff guys. 
> 
> So at first the issue was that I kept taking my meds at the wrong time and it sandpapered my sleep schedule, and when I finally fixed that, well. The insurance I’m under decided to stop covering my antidepressants in the amounts I needed, so I spent like 2-3 weeks getting that sorted before I FINALLY was allowed to refill my prescription again. 
> 
> Meanwhile, within the first uh, week or so of early September? My paternal grandmother was diagnosed with essentially-terminal metastatic liver cancer and then went in for a biopsy. didn’t bode well given her overall health, and she passed on the 18th, with a memorial on the 26th. It’s not an unexpected thing but there’s been a lot of, you know, stuff with that. So that’s certainly a situation.
> 
> Then one of our cats had to go to the emergency vet on October 2nd because they broke a claw and no one else was open, and that sort of thing can get infected really easily. This month has been a long three years, as I'm sure you all know. 
> 
> My family life & financial situation is also. Messy, to put it mildly, since I have a HS diploma at best + chronic low energy, so i don't have any money & the only real work I am good at is like. Physical farm work/chores, but I doubt anyone in the inland empire is willing to give me room and board for feeding chickens or cooking them meals. and my mental health is likely gonna tank over the holidays + election. so uh. this might not get updates for. a while. ://


End file.
